[1]The work was dedicated to Elizabeth Farnese, widow of Philip V of Spain. The fact of her accepting the dedication must have given it some importance in the eyes of the world. Ambrosoli is my authority for its cold reception. A copy of the second edition, published 1764, is in my possession. The editor says the poem was received with universal admiration, but perhaps his motive was to induce the public by that statement to buy his edition. Probably the fact of the author's death, as is so often the case, drew attention to his poem.
[1]The work was dedicated to Elizabeth Farnese, widow of Philip V of Spain. The fact of her accepting the dedication must have given it some importance in the eyes of the world. Ambrosoli is my authority for its cold reception. A copy of the second edition, published 1764, is in my possession. The editor says the poem was received with universal admiration, but perhaps his motive was to induce the public by that statement to buy his edition. Probably the fact of the author's death, as is so often the case, drew attention to his poem.
The Prose Writers of the Eighteenth Century need not detain us long, for with the exception of the Comedies of Goldoni, few works have any sort of vitality. Some authors, especially writers of Memoirs, wrote in French, like Casanova and Goldoni himself, whose Autobiography is in that language. Indeed, for some years, the danger seemed to be imminent that French would be as much used as Latin had been in former ages.
Goldoniis a delightful writer, and some of his best comedies still keep the stage. Those who have read Goldsmith'sGood-natured ManandShe Stoops to Conquer,can form an accurate idea of what Goldoni was. There is the same geniality, the same broad humour, the same light, but effective delineation of character, and the same sparkling and ingenious dialogue. If Goldoni has a fault, it is that his plots are sometimes too thin,and that his comedies occasionally betray the haste in which they were written. A few of his plays are in verse, and some are in the Venetian dialect in which he is always racy and spirited. He was a very fertile writer, and if many of his works are inferior to his best, they all bear testimony to the fertility and originality of his mind, and he deserves to be celebrated as the best writer of comedy that his country has produced.
The performance of Goldoni's Comedies may still be witnessed with pleasure, and his masterpiece,La Locandiera,has recently been seen in London with the celebrated Eleonora Duse as Mirandolina. The character of the heroine and the art with which she keeps her forward lovers at bay, are admirably conceived.Il Burbero Beneficois hardly inferior. It deals with a man who, under a rough surface, hides a tender heart.[1]Le Donne Curiosehas many amusing situations, brought about by the prying curiosity of some women.Il Poeta Fanatico,gives a laughable idea of the third-rate literary academies of his day, and the character of the poet who is always at a loss for a rhyme, is amusingly drawn.La Famiglia dell' Antiquario,offers a ludicrous exposure of the gullibility of collectors and amateurswho have neither taste nor knowledge.Le Smanie per la Villeggiaturatakes for its theme the passion of Venetian families for spending some months of the year in villas on the mainland.L'Impresariohas some delightfully comic scenes between an Operatic Manager and his company.L'Avarotreats the same topic as Molière in one of his comedies, and with hardly less success.Il Ventagliois ingenious in plot and vivacious in dialogue.I Rusteghi, Le Baruffe Chiozzotte, Sior Todero Brontolon,and several other Comedies, are in the Venetian dialect, in which he is quite it home, and in which he shows a vivacity and originality worthy of all praise. As his works contain nothing immoral or in any way indelicate they have always been in use at educational establishments for theatricals in those classes where Italian is taught. Goldoni is neither a philosophical nor a very profound writer, but he is delightfully vivacious, and there is hardly one of his comedies that the reader would not like to peruse a second time.
The brothersGasparoandCarlo Gozziwere Venetians, like Goldoni, but they were his rivals, and not his friends. Gasparo was a good literary essayist, and he wrote theOsservatore,a sort of imitation of Addison'sSpectator.He also defended Dante against Bettinelli's attacks. Carloproduced some fantastic and imaginative plays, one of which Schiller adapted for the German Stage, under the title ofTurandot, Princess of China.He has plenty of imagination, but his poetical talents are hardly powerful enough to give adequate expression to his really brilliant and original ideas.
A very different writer from these vivacious Venetians was the learnedMuratori, for many years Librarian to the Duke of Modena. He was a man of immense erudition and indefatigable industry. His works in Latin and Italian fill more than one hundred volumes. HisAnnali d'Italiaconstitute his most valuable work. He also wrote a treatise,Della Perfetta Poesia.He died in 1750.
Saverio Bettinelli, a Jesuit, may, perhaps, be taken as the most perfect embodiment of the Italian literary man of the Eighteenth Century. He had the light and easy style, the narrow canons of taste and judgement, and the humane and benevolent spirit that characterised his contemporaries. Although a Priest, he was a correspondent of Voltaire, and the Italian Jesuit joined with the French Philosopher in condemning the extravagant conceptions of those dreadful barbarians, Dante and Shakespeare. In Dante he could discover absolutely no merit, and he wrote long essays toconvert his countrymen to his views. As a poet, he is not without fluency and elegance, qualities which are also conspicuous in his prose, which may still be read with pleasure, though hardly with profit. His Tragedies appear very poor by the side of those of Alfieri. He had plenty of learning and some acuteness, and the tone of his mind is eminently judicious, but he could hardly rise to the appreciation of conceptions greater than his own, and the shrine at which he worshipped was that of academic elegance and delicate refinement. He was inspired with genuine patriotism which led him to write not only his chief historical work,Risorgimento d'Italia,but also some of his most spirited poems. His death took place in 1808, at the great age of ninety.
Antonio Magliabecchiwas one of the greatest marvels of erudition that ever lived. He was a goldsmith by trade, but his heart was in his books, and through the patronage of Michael Ermini, Librarian to Cardinal Medici, he obtained access to a library extensive enough to quench even his thirst for knowledge. When his friend Ermini died, he became his successor as Librarian. All day long he locked himself up in his house, reading from morning till night, and only after dark did he open his door, and then only to admit men of taste and learning in order to indulge in eruditeconversation. His habits were almost those of a hermit. He wore an old coat which served him as an apparel by day and a blanket by night. A straw-bottomed chair acted as table for his frugal meals, and another chair, hardly more comfortable, was his bed in which he sat up at night reading, reading, reading until he fell asleep from sheer fatigue. The marvel is that such industry, coupled with such privations, did not undermine his health, but we hear nothing of injurious results. He was very kind and benevolent in character, always ready to assist the inquiring with his knowledge and the needy with his money. He died in 1714. He was a Florentine by birth, and he left his library to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and also a sum of money, the interest of which was to be used for the purpose of making valuable additions to the volumes already collected. This library is still open to the public in Florence. Magliabecchi both by precept and example, gave an impetus to learning and research, but he did not offer to the world any works of his own, contenting himself with editing the lucubrations of others. Although he never travelled, he was well acquainted, by catalogues and descriptions, with the libraries of other cities. There is an anecdote of an acquaintance asking him how many copies were known to be extant of a book noted for its rarity. "Onlythree," was Magliabecchi's reply. "One belongs to me; one is in the Vatican, and the third at Constantinople in the library of the Grand Turk; you will find it in the third room, on the bottom shelf to the right as you enter, where it is the seventh volume."
A noble family of Verona, the Maffei, gave two eminent men to the Italy of the Eighteenth Century. The MarquisAlessandro Maffeientered the services of the Elector of Bavaria, and rose to be Field Marshal. He was instrumental in gaining the great victory over the Turks at Belgrade in 1717. He died in Munich in 1730, and leftMemoirswhich are both well-written and valuable as illustrating the history of his times. His brother,Scipione Maffei, was born on the first of June, 1675. Scipione entered the Army and served under his brother during the War of the Spanish Succession. His first work was a book against the practice of duelling. When he returned to his native city, he published a literary journal in conjunction with Apostolo Zeno and Vallisnieri. He wrote a comedy,La Ceremonia,and a tragedy,Merope,which became widely celebrated throughout Europe as the prototype of Voltaire's tragedy on the same subject. Voltaire dedicated hisMeropeto Maffei, but he was in reality jealous of the reputation the Italian work had acquired, and under a thindisguise he published letters laying bare its foibles and defects. The task was not very difficult, for Maffei'sMerope,beyond the fact of emanating from the pen of an elegant scholar, has little to recommend it. The characters are not very vividly drawn, and the blank verse is rather languid and unimpressive. His best and most enduring work is theVerona Illustrata,a magnificent contribution to the history of his native town. He died in 1755.
The JesuitTiraboschiproduced a voluminousHistory of Literatureand his work has both judgement and research to give it permanent value.
The humanitarian tendencies of the Eighteenth Century found an eloquent exponent in the MarquisBeccaria, a native of Milan. From a youth he was inclined to the study of Philosophy, and he was much influenced in his intellectual development by the contemporary French writers, especially by Montesquieu. The first work with which he appeared before the public was a pamphlet on the state of the Currency. In conjunction with some friends, he published a journal calledIl Cafféwhich advocated the humane and enlightened principles to which he was devoted. But the great work by which he is remembered is the treatiseDei Delitti e delle Pene,published in 1764. In this book he ventured to proclaim thedoctrine that the penalty should not exceed the offence. Barbarous sentences were passed in that age, not only in Italy, but all over the world, for misdemeanours which do not call for greater rigour than a few months' imprisonment. Criminals were broken on the wheel, prisoners were tortured on the rack. All these frightful abuses were attacked by Beccaria with the eloquence of burning indignation, and he had the satisfaction of finding an abundant harvest follow the sowing of the seed. Torture was abolished in France shortly after the accession of Louis XVI, and even in the worst excesses of the Reign of Terror nobody dared to suggest its revival. Many judicial murders were committed, but none of the victims were tortured. It is frightful to think what atrocities might have been perpetrated if that odious and irrational practice had still been in force. Beccaria died in 1793.
Gaetano Filangieriresembled Beccaria in his ambition to improve the laws, and his great work,La Scienza della Legislazione,obtained an immense reputation for its author. He was the scion of a noble Neapolitan family, and the Minister Tannucci showed some inclination to carry out his ideas. But he died when he was only thirty-six in 1788. Perhaps he was fortunate in not living to see the evil times in store for his country.
Francesco Algarottimay be described as a sort of diluted Bettinelli, but he had the merit of introducing Foreign writers to the Italian public and of spreading the knowledge of Italian in Foreign countries. Frederick the Great, who took delight in patronising the literature of every nation except his own, received Algarotti hospitably at Potsdam and conferred upon him the title of Count. He was a most fertile writer and he took pleasure, not only in literary criticism, but also in scientific investigation, and he was the first to make the discoveries of Newton familiar in the Peninsula. His poems make but a faint impression upon the modern reader, but they were such as the age of Frugoni admired. In character he was discreet and amiable, hence his personal popularity. His health gradually failed him and he died of consumption at Pisa, in 1764, at the age of 51. Frederick the Great had a handsome monument erected to his memory.
Antonio Cocchiwas a fertile writer on scientific and miscellaneous subjects, but it is the melancholy fate of scientific writers to be superseded by their successors, however well they may have written. He was born in 1695, and died in 1758.
Girolamo Tagliazucchiwas Professor of Greek at the University of Turin, and did much to spread the study of good literature.
Giovenale Sacchi, a Barnabite Monk, wrote books on music, dancing, and poetry in a style of great purity and elegance. He was, however, charged by the more austere spirits of his Order with devoting his attention to subjects too frivolous and profane, and he had to endure many persecutions. He died in 1789.
Antonio Cesari, a Priest of the Oratory, was born at Verona on the sixteenth of January, 1760. He was an ardent admirer of the prose writers of the Fourteenth Century, and it was his constant endeavour to purify the Italian language from the Frenchified idioms it had contracted in his day. Unlike Bettinelli, he was a devoted adherent of Dante, and he wrote a book to point out his beauties, but he dwells more upon the merits of the poet's style than upon the grandeur of his conceptions. Cesari was a good translator, and he was particularly successful in his rendering of the Comedies of Terence. In all his works we find a deep and fervent spirit of patriotism, a fore-runner of the wave of independence and devotion to their fatherland that swept over the Italians of the Century that must now engage our attention.
[1]Burbero Beneficowas originally written in French and afterwards translated into Italian.
[1]Burbero Beneficowas originally written in French and afterwards translated into Italian.
The tremendous cataclysm of the French Revolution produced vibrations and convulsions throughout the civilized world, nor is it a subject of surprise that Italy responded more vehemently than any other country to the voice of France. In its inception, the French Revolution was, undoubtedly, a necessity, and not an evil. Nobody can tax Necker, Mirabeau, and the Girondins with any other desire than the amelioration of France and of humanity. But when, owing to the utter inability of the leading statesmen to control the legislative assemblies they had convened, the direction of affairs slipped out of their hands into those of men to the last degree vindictive and unscrupulous, and when the great movement became stained with crimes so appalling and atrocities so inhuman as to find no parallel inhistory, it is no wonder that the Sovereigns of Europe combined to stamp out a devastating conflagration. But an event which no sagacity could foresee, destroyed all their plans and made them powerless even in their own dominions. One of the greatest generals the world has ever seen, rose to supreme power in France, and the Sovereigns who hoped to overawe Robespierre had in time to tremble before Napoleon. If, after the Peace of Amiens, the great soldier had known how to moderate his ambition, Europe might have been spared many sorrows and calamities; but unhappily, he did not rest content with the glory he had acquired; he soared in hope to universal dominion, and Europe was convulsed for more than a decade with struggles such as the world has never yet witnessed, and the loss of blood and treasure was immense. At last he was defeated, but not until he had practically defeated himself; for the greatest generals of his opponents were powerless against him for many years, and they only prevailed when he had exhausted the resources at his disposal. He fell from power never to rise again, and the triumphant Allies inaugurated a reaction, the effects of which were felt throughout the Nineteenth Century. The demons returned to their dwellings, and the second habitation was worse than the first. The one great Bastille had indeedbeen pulled down, but each country had innumerable little Bastilles of its own. Austria seized Venice and recovered Lombardy, and the mild and philanthropic rule of Firmian was replaced by the iron despotism of Metternich. In Naples the philanthropy of Filangieri had to make way for the ferocity of Bomba. But the nations had tasted liberty, and the old spirit of submission, more or less unwilling, had died out for ever. Secret societies sprang up all over the Peninsula, and the Carbonari continued what the Philosophers had begun. The old clemency of Joseph II and Leopold II was replaced by angry suspicion and ruthless severity. Men of stainless character were suspected of disaffection and subjected to rigours which should be reserved only for the worst of criminals. Shameless tyranny aroused the indignation of an enlightened age, and a dynasty, remarkable for the politic and steadfast character of its Princes, with rare sagacity took advantage of the situation to achieve at once the liberation of Italy and its own supremacy in the Peninsula. The House of Savoy triumphed, not only over the Vatican and the Bourbons, but also over Mazzini and Garibaldi and their visionary and enthusiastic followers.
It is not for the literary historian to enter into the details of that great struggle. But one remark must be made. No statesmen were more thoroughlyimbued than Victor Emmanuel and Cavour with the conviction of the folly committed by those victorious factions who make martyrs of their political opponents. If Charles I had not been beheaded, Charles II would probably never have ascended the throne of his ancestors. If Louis XVI had not been guillotined, Louis XVIII would probably never have been able to return to France. If Napoleon had not shed the blood of the Due d'Enghien, he would probably never have aroused the relentless enmity of his opponents. These examples seem always to have been present to the minds of the Councillors of the House of Savoy. And, in truth, if they had made a Louis XVI of the King of Naples, if they had made a Marie Antoinette of his Queen, if they had made a Boniface VIII of Pius IX, such a reaction would have swept over the Peninsula as would have destroyed the fruits of the labours of two generations of patriots. Fortunately for Italy and themselves, they knew how to use their victory with moderation. Doubtless there were some fierce and vindictive spirits who would have clamoured for a Reign of Terror if they had dared; but they were firmly kept in check, and the country is now reaping the benefit of the policy or of the humanity of its liberators. Disappointments there have undoubtedly been, especially is the grinding weightof taxation to be deplored that is requisite to keep up a huge Army and a powerful Navy; but the discontented spirits who clamour for a return to the old state of things, are so few and far between, that they can be treated with contemptuous forbearance. Such symptoms of reaction as may appear, are so mild as to be positively beneficial in keeping up a spirit of criticism and control over the Executive, which would else, owing to the easy-going character of the populace, be allowed to slumber. Indeed, it may be laid down as an axiom, that the more light-hearted a nation is, the greater is its liability to acquiesce, perhaps unconsciously, in the misgovernment of its rulers.
The Eighteenth Century was remarkable for the paucity of eminent Prose Writers; the Nineteenth Century, on the contrary, can show a brilliant array of philosophers, historians, and novelists; and it would probably be more extensive had not the rapid development of journalistic enterprise drawn many able men to the daily Press, who would in former ages have devoted themselves to the writing of books. Their articles in newspapers ind magazines perished after the day of appearance, with the exception of those rare cases where a writer, or his friends, made a collection to be published in book form. Thus, many keen and powerful minds laboured for the enlightenmentof their generation, but no record remains of their productions. The unbounded popularity of fiction caused greater attention to be bestowed on that branch of Literature, and memorable works were given to the world. For nearly seventy years the chief inspirer was patriotism, as was only natural in the Century that witnessed the liberation of the Peninsula from foreign oppression. The Literature of England and Germany began to be studied, and the romantic movement introduced an entirely new style of subject and treatment. The old conventions of mythological allusions are at last consigned to merited oblivion, and we find poets expressing themselves in a direct and natural manner. The former timidity of philosophical and religious speculation is exchanged for boundless liberty, often coupled with intense hatred of Christianity. Strong originality marks the writers of the Nineteenth Century, but that originality is often purchased at the price of harmonious development and serenity of mind. They have reason to envy the intellectual complacency of Ariosto and Metastasio. This discord of the mind is more marked in Leopardi than in any other writer, although he was almost the first to display it. In truth, the Nineteenth Century was for Italy a period of transition. The old forms of thought, as well as the old forms of government, weregradually overcome and destroyed, and perhaps it would be premature to say what definite form they are likely to assume. One thing is certain; the old methods can never be revived, and the efforts of pedants to infuse new life into their effete decrepitude can only result in ignominious failure. Self-reliance and originality must be the watch-words of the future, and it is gratifying to observe that the best and most promising of the younger generation of writers are, consciously or unconsciously, opening out new forms of art and fresh vistas of ideas. That some mistakes have been made, cannot be denied. Extreme realism has claimed its victims in Italy as elsewhere. From excessive desire to be exact, some writers have ceased to be natural. In their endeavour to avoid superstition, other writers have advocated gross and vulgar materialism. Some have shewn repulsive want of decency; others, utter disregard for beauty and purity of style. There has been a tendency to indulge in glaring, tawdry effects, from which the Eighteenth Century was commendably free. But, on the whole, it would be unjust to deny that the Nineteenth Century offers a striking panorama of stirring events and great and memorable authors.
It is not often that a writer towers so immeasurably above his contemporaries, that we can point him out, without fear of contradiction, as the greatest of his century. We can, however, unhesitatingly do so in the case of Leopardi. The works to which he owes his immortality are, indeed, few in number and short in extent, but their perfection gives them a dignity which more voluminous productions might emulate in vain.
Giacomo Leopardiwas born at Recanati, a town of the March of Ancona, on the 29th of June, 1798, the eldest son of Count Monaldo Leopardi and Adelaide, his wife, daughter of the Marquis Antici. He had three brothers, Carlo, Luigi, and Pierfrancesco, and one sister, Paolina. His father was a man of literary tastes and had a magnificent library, in which the future poet quenched his thirst for knowledge with as much ardour asdid Magliabecchi, in a former age, in the library of Cardinal Medici. He soon outstripped in learning the priests who were entrusted with his education. His eager and independent mind spurned direction and disdained moderation. He acquired many languages, and he soon endeavoured to put on paper the result of his studies. Some of his injudicious admirers tried to make an infant prodigy of him, and the stimulus of vanity was added to his passion for knowledge. He toiled day after day in his intellectual quarry, with no relaxation except the absolute necessities of food and sleep. The result may be imagined. His sight failed him from the merciless strain put upon it by reading till late hours of night, often by a flickering candle burnt down to its socket. His spine became curved from constantly bending over the huge folios that formed the staple of his reading. His lungs craved in vain for dilation in his cramped chest and for the freshness of the open air. His nerves gave way, his food failed to nourish him, and his strength at last collapsed so completely that he could neither read nor write, nor even think or speak. From the age of sixteen to twenty-one the mischief was done. The duty of his parents was plain. They should from the beginning have sternly forbidden the overwork, and have compelled him to take requisite exerciseand rational amusement. Unhappily, they seem rather to have encouraged the overwork, and actually to have discountenanced all amusement and all intercourse with the outer world. They cannot be acquitted of grave errors of judgment, but it would be harsh to charge them with cruelty. Monaldo was devotedly attached to his children, but it would have been better if he had sent them to school and college, where they would have knocked about with companions of their own age, instead of being left to solitary brooding with their minds preying upon themselves. They would then have returned home, fresh and buoyant, and happy to be again with their parents.
Monaldo had been extravagant in his youth, his estates were considerably encumbered; motives of economy probably made him rejoice that his children were actually learning more at home than could be expected from pupils of the most famous seminaries. In later life, whilst willing and happy to keep them in a handsome style in his ancestral home at Recanati, he found it impossible to supply them with sufficient funds to live in Rome or Florence or Naples in the style to which they had always been accustomed. Therefore, he strongly opposed their desire to see the world. He was perfectly contented with his own surroundings, and he neither understood nor sympathised withGiacomo's longing to widen his sphere of experience.
Painful misunderstandings were the result. Giacomo, owing to the utter prostration into which he had fallen, was obliged to remain a whole year without reading or writing, and he was thrown back upon his melancholy thoughts. He had already received sufficient praise to fire his youthful ambition and he chafed at the bondage in which he was kept. Pietro Giordani was the first literary man of eminence whose acquaintance he made, and long letters passed between the friends, letters full of admiration on the part of Giordani, full of impatience and despair on the part of Leopardi. That he exaggerated the horrors of his condition cannot for a moment be doubted. Many youths would have been thankful to take his place in a handsome and dignified home; but then few youths could possibly have been tormented by such bitter melancholy and such overweening ambition.
At last a desperate resolve occurred to him. Permission to leave home was denied him; he would act on his own responsibility and take refuge in flight. He made preparations for secret departure, and wrote a long letter to his father explaining the motives of his desperate measure. Happily, the insane project was abandoned, but the letter was preserved by his brother Carlo, andit is deeply to be regretted that it was published some years ago. Far better would it have been to draw a veil across the eccentricities of a great mind and the misunderstandings between natures noble and upright, but painfully divergent in thought and action. However, the letter exists and must be dealt with. There is nothing discreditable in it either to the poet or to his father, but much that is inexpressibly painful.
The letter was written in the month of July, 1819. He begins by saying with perfect sincerity that he always loved his father, that he always would love him, and that he deeply grieved at being the cause of giving him pain. "You know me," he continues, "and you know what my conduct has been up to now. You will see that in all Italy, and I may say in all Europe, no other person of my rank and even younger than I am, and perhaps with intellectual gifts inferior to mine, could be found who would show one-half of the circumspection, abstinence from all the pleasures of youth, obedience and submission to his parents that I have shown. However poor your opinion may be of the few talents that Heaven has bestowed upon me, you cannot altogether refuse to credit the many estimable and famous men who have passed the judgement upon me which you know and which it is not for me to repeat. It wasthe marvel of everybody who knew me that I should still be buried in this town, and that you alone should be of an opposite opinion, and should inflexibly persist therein. It is certainly not unknown to you, that there is not a youth of barely seventeen years of age who is not taken in hand by his parents to be placed in a position for his future advantage. I say nothing about the liberty accorded to all young people of that age in our position in life—liberty of which not one-third was accorded to me at the age of twenty-one. It was only recently that I began to ask you to provide for my future in the manner indicated by the opinion of all who knew me. I noticed several families of this town, probably less well off than we are, making heavy sacrifices in order to start their sons in life, however faint the indications of promising talent might be.
"Many people were of opinion that my intellect showed much more than a faint indication; but you were of opinion that I was quite unworthy of a father's solicitude or of any sacrifice on his part, nor did you think that my present or future welfare was of sufficient importance for you to make any alteration in your domestic arrangements.
"I saw my parents make light of the posts which they obtained for others from the Sovereign Pontiff, and hoping that they would take the sametrouble for me, I asked that at least some means of living might be obtained that would enable me to live in a manner suitable to my position without being a drag upon my family. I was answered with derision, and you did not think that your influence should be used to obtain a decent competence for your son. I was well aware of the projects you were forming for us, and how, to secure the prosperity of what you call our 'house' and'family,'you exacted from Carlo and from me the sacrifice of our inclinations, of our youth, and of our whole life. Being quite certain that neither Carlo nor I would ever humour you in that, I could not possibly entertain the idea of those projects. You know only too well the most wretched life I have led through the effects of my horrible melancholy, and the torments I have endured from my strange imagination. You cannot have been blind to the fact that there was no other remedy for my suffering health since I fell into this wretched debility, but powerful distractions, and, in short, everything that could not be had in Recanati.
"In spite of all this, you suffered a man of my character, either to consume the remnant of his strength in suicidal studies, or to bury himself in the most terrible ennui with its attendant melancholy. These evils were aggravated by the surrounding solitude, and by the empty andunoccupied tenour of my life, especially in the last months.
"It did not take me long to find that no arguments could move you, and that the extraordinary firmness of your character, disguised under a mild exterior, was such that I could not entertain even a shadow of hope. All these circumstances and my reflections on human nature persuaded me that I should rely upon nobody but myself, although I was destitute of everything. And now that by law I am my own master, I will no longer delay to take upon myself the load of my destiny. I know that human felicity consists in contentment, and that I could more easily be happy begging for bread like a mendicant, than surrounded in this abode by all the material luxuries it may present. I hate that vile prudence that freezes and binds us and makes us incapable of every great action, reducing us to the level of the animals who apply themselves placidly to the preservation of this unhappy life without any other thought. I know that I shall be held to be insane, as all great men have been held before me. And even as the career of almost every great genius has begun with despair, I am not dismayed at mine beginning so too. I would rather be unhappy than obscure; I would rather suffer than languish in miserable ennui which to me is the fruitful mother of deadlymelancholy and black thoughts of wretchedness, more agonising than all discomforts of the body. Parents, as a rule, judge their children more favourably than others, but you, on the contrary, judge your children more harshly, and therefore you never would believe that we were born for anything great; perhaps no greatness appeals to you that cannot be measured with geometrical precision.
"Having, to the best of my ability, given you my reasons for the step I am about to take, it only remains for me to ask your pardon for the distress it may cause you. If my health were less uncertain, I would rather beg from house to house that touch a pin that belonged to you. But feeble as I am, and hopeless of getting anything from you, I have been obliged, in order not to die on the road, to take what is absolutely necessary for my existence. I am deeply grieved, and it almost makes me waver in my resolution when I think of the sorrow I shall cause you, knowing your kindness of heart and all your endeavours to make us contented with our lot. For those endeavours I am grateful from the bottom of my heart, and it is agony to me to think that I shall appear infected with the vice of ingratitude which I abhor more than anything else. Only the difference in our principles which was in no way to beovercome, and which would necessarily end either in my dying here of desperation, or in my taking to flight as I am doing, has been the cause of all my unhappiness. It has pleased Heaven for our punishment that the only young men in this town who had thoughts above the ordinary level of Recanati, should be born to you to try your patience and that the only father who looked upon such sons as a misfortune, should be allotted to us. That which consoles me is the thought that this is the last annoyance I give you, and that it will free you from my unwelcome presence. My dear father, if you will allow me to call you by that name, I kneel down before you, and pray you to pardon one so unhappy by nature and by circumstances. I would that my unhappiness were my exclusive property and that nobody might share it with me, and so I trust it will be in the future. If fortune ever makes me the possessor of anything my first thought shall be to replace what I have now taken from you. The last favour that I ask of you is that if ever you recall to your memory your wretched son who has always venerated and loved you, you will not curse him; and that if you cannot praise him, you will, at least, bestow upon him that compassion which is granted even to malefactors."
Such, abridged in a few passages, is the memorableletter which reveals the troubles of Leopardi's mind. It is a curious medley of wounded vanity, of imaginary wrongs and of genuine grievances. It is passing strange that Leopardi should have been so anxious about his future. He was his father's eldest son, and as such, heir to ample, if somewhat encumbered, estates. I think he mistook his own feelings, and what he thought solicitude for his livelihood, was in reality the agony of unsatisfied ambition. The fatal mistake that his father made was to coop up so ardent and aspiring a young man in the restricted routine of a somewhat cloistral home. Monaldo and Adelaide had a genuine fear of their children becoming contaminated by undesirable associates; and to avert this evil, neither the poet nor his brothers were allowed to go out unaccompanied. The young prisoners naturally resented this surveillance, especially Leopardi who, at a time when his literary renown was spreading all over Italy, was still under the restrictions of the nursery. "Everybody treats me as a child," he writes, "except my parents who treat me as a baby." No wonder that flight had its romance and its attractions; but where would he have gone to if he had run away? Doubtless, the utter inability to answer this question made him abandon the idea. Carlo and Paolina noticed something peculiar in his demeanour; they watchedhim, and we may safely assume that their affection extorted from him his secret, that he showed them the letter intended for his father and that they persuaded him to abandon the wild and desperate scheme. It would have been well if the letter had been burnt, and the whole unhappy episode consigned to oblivion. It makes the poet appear wild and visionary and the father a more obdurate tyrant than he really was. He utterly failed to enter into the ideas of his illustrious son, and posterity has censured him with a harshness he was far from deserving.
Leopardi abandoned the idea of flight and resigned himself as best he could to the melancholy life he was compelled to lead. His home was dull, but it was not, it could not have been, the Hell upon earth that Montefredini, one of his biographers, would have us believe. There was no domestic discord; not a trace of strife is discernible. The style of living in Monaldo's house was handsome and even luxurious, but neither his father nor his mother seem to have encouraged visitors or to have entertained as might be expected from their rank. Of Leopardi's acquaintance with Pietro Giordani they were undoubtedly apprehensive. Giordani, although a Priest, had the reputation of being a freethinker at heart, and they trembled lest he should infect the poet with hisopinions. It is even suspected that many letters between the friends were intercepted. But others not only reached their destination, but have been preserved and published, and they now form a noble memorial of confidence and friendship. Leopardi was able at intervals to devote himself to his favourite pursuit of literature and he published some of his earlier poems; but their patriotic character frightened the apprehensive Monaldo. He was afraid his son would be regarded as a sympathiser with the Carbonari, and Leopardi had to distribute the copies surreptitiously and to speak of them as little as possible.
He was abandoning his labours in the field of Classical Antiquity and turning his attention to original and stirring themes, full of life and actuality. But, unhappily, the more his intellect expanded, the more his health deteriorated. The blackest melancholy never left him, and it became daily intensified by his persistent habits of introspection. He complains in a letter to Giordani of utter weakness of his whole body and especially of the nerves. We hear nothing of doctors being called in to arrest the evil, nor does the patient himself seem to have asked for them. Things were allowed to drift until it was too late. "I am lying," he says in one of his letters to Giordani, "under a mountain of sorrows, and not a ray of hope canbe seen." "I speak from my heart and I do not pretend," he exclaims. The great poet is already a great pessimist.
In 1821 the tone of his letters became a trifle more cheerful and he was interested in the engagement of his sister Paolina, and he wrote a poem on her marriage. But the negotiations were broken off and the wedding never took place.
Conscious of the immense reputation he already possessed of vast erudition, his parents formed the hope that he would embrace the ecclesiastical career and rise to high dignities in the Roman Curia. When at last their consent was obtained for his departure from home in the hope that change would benefit his shattered nerves, it was to Rome that he was sent, doubtless with the desire that he should make acquaintances useful to him in the future. He resided with his maternal uncle, the Marquis Carlo Antici. But no sooner had he arrived in Rome than he regretted Recanati, and it became apparent that wherever he went, one of his most striking oddities was an intense horror of his place of residence, an utter loathing which he neither moderated nor concealed. If he called Recanati a dungeon, he called Rome a gigantic sepulchre. His shattered nerves could ill bear the concourse of people around him, and he saw in society, not its vivacity and animation, but itsfrivolity and emptiness. For the literary men of Rome he entertained immeasurable contempt. He despised them for their devotion to Antiquarian minutiæ. But this reproach came with ill-grace from Leopardi, who had himself devoted years of laborious study, who had even squandered the precious possession of health in laborious elucidation of grammatical and philological problems, hardly more important than the coins and inscriptions of Roman Antiquarians.
He made, however, some agreeable acquaintances, pre-eminent among whom was the historian Niebuhr, at that time Prussian Ambassador to the Vatican. Niebuhr conceived the most intense admiration for his genius and spoke of him in the highest terms to Cardinal Consalvi, Secretary of State to Pius VII. The Cardinal offered him the prospect of valuable preferment, but only on condition that he should embrace the ecclesiastical career. To this, however, Leopardi offered invincible repugnance. Neither his own interests nor the persuasion of friends could induce him to yield. Pius VII died in 1823, and Consalvi retired from the direction of public affairs. So favourable an opportunity never returned. Niebuhr offered Leopardi an appointment in Prussia, but he refused, dreading the long journey and the severe climate of Berlin. Great as his reputation was, noother opening offered itself. It is curious to reflect on the vicissitudes of literary fame. Leopardi is now valued for his lyric poems and for his dialogues and thoughts in prose; but his laborious studies in philology, studies to which he sacrificed health and happiness, are rapidly sinking into oblivion. When he first went to Rome, he had hardly written a line of that which has conferred immortality upon him. All the esteem he enjoyed was lavished upon him for the fruits of his juvenile industry. The grammarian who could solve the most difficult passages in the ancient writers of Greece and Rome, who was as well versed in the Talmud as in the Bible, who knew the obscurest Italian writers of the Fourteenth Century as intimately as his contempories knew Petrarch, was valued and extolled; the melodious poet and the profound philosopher was not ignored or despised, because he was not even suspected to exist.
In 1823, after five months sojourn in Rome, he returned to Recanati. He had seen the world he so longed to explore, and disenchantment was the result. His health was not improved, on the contrary, it was rather injured, by the inevitable exertions of travel, sight-seeing and society. He remained at Recanati for two years, and during part of this period he was occupied in publishing a volume of poems. They were well received, butthey were published secretly, without the knowledge of his parents. The passion for overwork did not desert him even after the warning already given to him by his shattered health. "I work day and night as much as my strength will allow. When I break down, I walk up and down my room daily for months." He would have done better to walk up and down in the open air.
Having seen so much in Rome of the incompetence and frivolity of literary people, he despaired of finding due appreciation for the elaborate finish which it was his ambition to bestow upon his productions and without which he did not care to write. But still his ambitious spirit commanded him to persevere, and among the signs of encouragement he received was the homage paid him by Niebuhr of the dedication of one of his works. When Niebuhr left Rome he enjoined upon his successor Bunsen to value the great merit of Leopardi, and Bunsen proved himself the poet's friend through life.
In 1825 he received an offer from the Milanese publisher Stella to superintend an edition of the complete works of Cicero and to reside with him while the sheets were passing through the press. He gladly accepted. He set out for Milan in July, staying at Bologna for a month to avoid the fatigue of travelling during the great heat. Bologna wasone of the few places that he really liked. He enjoyed the company of Giordani and other friends, and he was loth to part with them. When he reached Milan, he pined to return to Bologna; everything seemed to him repulsive and even hostile; he made no friends; his duties with regard to the edition of Cicero seemed to him intolerably irksome; and he even disliked the gaieties of Milan, gaieties in which he was at times too unwell and at other times too melancholy to join.
"He carried with him his misfortune wherever he went," says Ambrosoli, who met him at this epoch; "and he could not remain happy for long in any place. He could not obtain any suitable post in Italy, and out of Italy he would not accept one. When in 1825 he came to Milan to stay some months with the publisher Stella, he was already an object of compassion, so young, and with such a reputation for genius and learning, and yet visibly hastening to his end. In his conversation, as well as in his writings, he was so simple, so remote from any ostentation, that few might suspect that he was an extraordinary man; but by degrees the flashes of his wit and the treasures of his knowledge revealed the powers within him."
At last he carried out his intention of returning to Bologna, but the second visit was not sopleasant as the first. When the winter came, it was bitterly cold, and his health suffered in proportion. He would willingly have returned to Milan, but he did not receive another invitation. He was occupied with a Commentary on Petrarch, a labour which he did not undertake very readily, but which was pressed upon him by Stella. It was a great success, and Stella had reason to congratulate himself upon his acumen in getting the work done by so gifted a writer. He entrusted Leopardi with the editing of a selection from the best works of the best authors, and this task was still occupying him when he returned to Recanati, in November, 1826.
It would appear that during his sojourn at Bologna he had not been insensible to the attractions of love; but love could be for him nothing but a source of torment; and as his first return home was signalised by the wreck of hope, so was his second by the blighting of affection. He seemed, like the hero of thePilgrim's Progress,to be writhing in the grasp of Giant Despair; and from the day of his arrival to that of his departure, in the following April, he was not once seen in the streets of Recanati.
He sought a remedy for his sorrows by returning to Bologna, but in vain; and on the 20th of June, 1827, he removed to Florence where he enjoyedthe society of Giordani; but an acute inflammation of the eyes confined him to the house and long prevented him from inspecting the treasures of art that overflow the Tuscan city. At this epoch he published hisOperette Morali,a series of dialogues and essays, offering, according to the best critics of his country, the most perfect specimen of prose in the Italian language.
In the autumn he somewhat recovered, and wishing to continue the improvement, he avoided the cold of Florence by wintering at Pisa. Florence, as a residence, he did not like, but with Pisa he was enchanted. The improvement, however, was but slight, and his nerves were in such a weak state that any sort of application or study was out of the question. In April, 1828, he was able to apply himself again to composition, and he seemed to be reviving, when the death of his brother Luigi afflicted him profoundly. From June to November he was again at Florence, but his yearning for home made itself felt after the recent bereavement.
He started on the 12th of November for Recanati in the company of a young man afterwards known to fame as Vincenzo Gioberti. He found his birthplace darkened by the shadow of death, which seemed to him the herald of his own. His former gloom returned, but in a more terrible shape; hesaw only annihilation before him; and he took the last glance of life in his superbRicordanze,the most richly coloured, the most deeply pathetic, the most unfathomably profound of all his poems.
In 1830, his Florentine friends, wishing to have him once more in their midst, urged his return to their city. Accordingly, in May he took leave of his family, little thinking he should never see them again. It would be curious to enquire what made him so wretched when at home, and yet, when absent, always longing to be there. His brother Carlo said many years later to Prospero Viani, the editor of his correspondence, that none of his poems written elsewhere had the beauty of those composed at Recanati; and when Viani mentioned theGinestra,Carlo replied that in substance even theGinestrawas conceived at Recanati. Some biographers say theRisorgimentowas written at Pisa; but Ranieri, who was probably well-informed, says it was written at Recanati, and this assertion is, I think, borne out by internal evidence. TheCanto Notturnoseems also to have been written in his birthplace. Thus, Carlo's statement would be correct. It is observable that the poems subsequent to theCanto Notturno,with the exception ofAspasiaand the little poemTo Himself,have an air of languor, foreign to his earlier productions. This languor is perceptible even in the sublimeGinestra,and it is not absent from passages of thePensiero Dominante, Amore e Morte,and the long, mock-heroicParalipomeni.The repose, sepulchral as it may have seemed to him, of Recanati, and the exquisite beauty of its scenery, bordered in the distance by the blue waters of the Adriatic, were conducive to the exercise of the imagination. Nor must we forget that he spoke of other places (except Pisa and Bologna) with equal bitterness. The climate seems really to have worked havoc on his delicate frame. He allowed its inhabitants only one merit, that of speaking Italian with purity and elegance.
His stay in Florence, which extended from May, 1830, to October of the following year, was made memorable by the publication of another edition of his Poems, with many pieces added and with a dedicatory epistle to his Tuscan friends. At this period, he made the acquaintance of Ranieri, a Neapolitan with literary talents, who was to be his intimate friend and future biographer.
In October, 1831, he suddenly vanished from Florence and appeared in Rome, why, none could tell. He wrote to his brother Carlo on the subject, begging him not to ask for the details of a long romance, full of pain and anguish. It has been conjectured that he fixed his affections upon an unworthy object and was bitterly undeceived. Whatever the circumstances may have been, it iscertain that in Rome his mental misery, always great, rose to an intolerable height, and that for a time he harboured thoughts of self-destruction. But the strength of his character overcame the strength of his affliction, and he gradually softened to a serener mood. At this time the Florentine Accademia della Crusca elected him a member, a worthy tribute to his genius and eloquence. After five months sojourn in Rome, he returned to Florence, where he fell so dangerously ill that the rumour was spread of his decease. The doctors urged him to try a milder climate, and in September, 1833, he set out for Naples, accompanied by Ranieri.
In Naples and its vicinity the remainder of his life was destined to be passed.
The natural beauties of the surrounding country were delightful to one so appreciative of their charm. His health improved after a time, and he was able to display the riches of his intellect by writing theParalipomeni,many detached thoughts in prose, like thePenséesof Pascal and theMaximsof La Rochefoucauld; and above all, his philosophic and immortal poem, theGinestra,of which it may be said that had he written nothing else his fame would be perpetuated by that production alone.
In March, 1836, he who had formerly sighed sodeeply for death and who had invoked it in such exquisite verse, felt so greatly improved in health that he imagined he had many years before him. But this was only the last flickering of the flame before it went out for ever. The Cholera was raging in 1837, and the prospect of falling a victim to a mysterious and terrible disease, filled him with horror. The great German poet Platen who had resided in Naples previous to his departure for Sicily, where he died, was the first to instil him with alarm on the subject.
Leopardi was thoroughly unhappy, and his strange aversion to the places where he lived revived with unreasonable violence. He wrote of Naples as a den of barbarous African savagery. He yearned for home and pined for his family, and the last letter he sent to his father (three weeks before his decease), was full of plans for returning to Recanati as soon as his infirmities and the Quarantine would allow. He had not been able to write his letters for some years, owing to failing sight, and was obliged to dictate them to an amanuensis.
"If I escape from the Cholera," he says in this letter which was to be his last, "and as soon as my health allows, I will do my utmost to rejoin you, whatever time of year it may be; because I must hasten, persuaded as I am that the term prescribed by God to my days, cannot now be distant.My physical sufferings, incessant and incurable, have in course of time attained such a degree that they cannot get worse, and I hope that when at last the feeble resistance of my dying body is exhausted, they may conduct me to that eternal rest which I pray for daily, not from heroism, but from the intensity of the agonies I suffer."
His earthly sorrows were indeed drawing to a close, and he died suddenly at Capo di Monte, when preparing to go out for a drive, at five o'clock in the afternoon on the fourteenth of June, 1837, aged thirty-nine years all but a fortnight. "His body," says Ranieri, "saved as by a miracle from the common and confused burial place enforced by the Cholera regulations, was interred in the suburban Church of San Vitale on the road of Pozzuoli, where a plain slab indicates his memory to the visitor." He was slight and short of stature, somewhat bent and very pale, with a large forehead and blue eyes, an aquiline nose and refined features, a soft voice and a most attractive smile. His father survived him ten years; his mother, twenty years; his sister Paolina, thirty-two years; and his brother Carlo, nearly forty-one years. His youngest brother, Pierfrancesco, who died in 1851, also at the age of thirty-eight, was alone destined to continue the family. Carlo was twice married,but had only one daughter, who died young, by his first wife. I am indebted to the kindness of the Count and Countess Leopardi for several interesting works relating to the poet.
Mr. Charles Edwardes has translated with great skill Leopardi's Prose Works; I have translated his Poems, so that readers who may not be acquainted with Italian, can now obtain an idea of his philosophy and of his poetry. Equally as a thinker and as a poet, he is distinguished by depth. As a Prose writer, he bears a striking resemblance to Pascal. In both there is the same gloomy power of imagination, the same method of profound meditation, and the same intensity of pessimism. As a poet he displays the most marvellous variety of thought and of expression. His mock-heroic poem, entitledParalipomeni della Batracomiomachia,is, as the name indicates, a sort of continuation of the Greek Poem describing the War of the Frogs and the Rats. The subject is wretchedly chosen and it is obvious that the narrative serves only to introduce the digressions, and it is in these digressions that the poet's brilliant imagination and felicity of style are displayed. Indeed, in the style alone can the work be said to have any merit. It is the longest of his poetical productions, and it is greatly to be regretted that he did not bestow the labour wasted on so frivolousa subject upon a theme worthier of his genius. Still, there are some fine passages, as, for instance, a most poetical description of Night, of which I subjoin a translation:
"The star of Venus in the Heavens highAppeared before the other stars or moon;Silent was all; no breath was heard, no cry,Unless the murmur of a far lagoon,And buzzing gnats who from the forest flyWhen veiling shades replace the glare of noon;The lovely face of Hesperus sereneWas in the lake in pure reflection seen.
The poem also offers an exquisite description of the Cuckoo, which may be compared to Wordsworth's poem on the same subject:
In fragrant May, when love and life are boundIn closer links, we hear the Cuckoo far,Mysterious bird, who in the woods profoundGives vent to sighs that almost human are,Who, like a ghost nocturnal, all aroundDeludes the shepherd following from afar;Nor long is heard the voice: it wanes and dies,Though born in Spring, when Summer heats arise."
But Leopardi's universal renown is founded upon the forty-one poems and fragments of poems published under the collective title ofCanti.Thirty-four of the pieces are complete and original poems, seven are either fragments or translations.
We find in reading Petrarch's Odes and Sonnets a certain sameness, whence it is difficult to keep the greater number of the poems distinct from each other in the memory, beautiful though they may be. The same cannot be said of Leopardi'sCanti.There each poem has a distinct individuality of its own, and makes an indelible impression upon the reader. I will quote a few of the finest, and will begin with one of his most admired masterpieces in which, under the disguise of Sappho before taking the fatal leap from the promontory of Leucadia, he deplores his own physical afflictions.
The Last Song of Sappho.(Ultimo Canto di Saffo).Thou peaceful night, thou chaste and silver rayOf the declining Moon; and thou, arisingAmid the quiet forest on the rocks,Herald of day; O cherished and endeared,Whilst Fate and Doom were to my knowledge closed,Objects of sight! No lovely land or skyDoth longer gladden my despairing mood.By unaccustomed joy we are revivedWhen o'er the liquid spaces of the HeavensAnd o'er the fields alarmed doth wildly whirlThe tempest of the winds, and when the car,The ponderous car of Jove, above our headsThundering, divides the heavy air obscure.O'er mountain peaks and o'er abysses deepWe love to float amid the swiftest clouds;We love the terror of the herds dispersed,The streams that flood the plain,And the victorious, thunderous fury of the main.Fair is thy sight, O sky divine, and fairArt thou, O dewy Earth! Alas! of allThis beauty infinite, no slightest partTo wretched Sappho did the Gods or FateInexorable give. Unto thy reignSuperb, O Nature, an unwelcome guestAnd a disprized adorer doth my heartAnd do mine eyes implore thy lovely forms;But all in vain. The sunny land aroundSmiles not for me, nor from ethereal gatesThe blush of early dawn; not me the songsOf brilliant-feathered birds, not me the treesSalute with murmuring leaves; and where in shadeOf drooping willows doth a liquid streamDisplay its pure and crystal course, from myAdvancing foot the soft and flowing wavesWithdrawing with affright,Disdainfully it takes through flowery dell its flight.What fault so great, what guiltiness so direDid blight me ere my birth, that adverse grewTo me the brow of fortune and the sky?How did I sin, a child, when ignorantOf wickedness is life, that from that timeDespoiled of youth and of its fairest flowers,The cruel Fates wove with relentless wrathThe web of my existence? Reckless wordsRise on thy lips; the events that are to be,A secret council guides. Secret is all,Our agony excepted. We were born,Neglected race, for tears; the reason liesAmid the Gods on high. Oh cares and hopesOf early years! To beauty did the Sire,To glorious beauty an eternal reignGive o'er this human kind; for warlike deed,For learned lyre or song,In unadornèd shape, no charms to fame belong.Ah! let us die. The unworthy garb divested,The naked soul will take to Dis its flightAnd expiate the cruel fault of blindDispensers of our lot. And thou for whomLong love in vain, long faith and fruitless rageOf unappeased desire assailed my heart,Live happily, if happily on earthA mortal yet hath lived. Not me did JoveSprinkle with the delightful liquor fromThe niggard urn, since of my childhood diedThe dreams and fond delusions. The glad daysOf our existence are the first to fly;And then disease and age approach, and last,The shade of frigid Death. Behold! of allThe palms I hoped for and the errors sweet,Hades remains; and the transcendant mindSinks to the Stygian shoreWhere sable Night doth reign, and silence evermore.The Infinite.I always loved this solitary hillAnd this green hedge that hides on every sideThe last and dim horizon from our view.But as I sit and gaze, a never-endingSpace far beyond it and unearthly silenceAnd deepest quiet in my thought I picture,And as with terror is my heart o'ercastWith wondrous awe. And whilst I hear the windAmid the green leaves rustling, I compareThat silence infinite unto this sound,And to my mind eternity occursAnd all the vanished ages, and the presentWhose sound doth meet mine ear. And so in thisImmensity my thought is drifted on,And to be wrecked on such a sea is sweet.To Sylvia.Sylvia, rememberest thouYet that sweet time of thine abode on earth,When beauty graced thy browAnd fired thine eyes so radiant and so gay,And thou, so joyous, yet of pensive mood,Didst pass on youth's fair way?The chambers calm and still,The sunny paths around,Did to thy song resound,When thou, upon thy handiwork intent,Wast seated, full of joyAt the fair future where thy hopes were bound.It was the fragrant month of flowery May,And thus went by thy day.I, leaving oft behindThe labours and the vigils of my mindThat did my life consumeAnd of my being far the best entomb,Bade from the casement of my father's houseMine ears give heed unto thy silver songAnd to thy rapid handThat swept with skill the spinning thread along;I watched the sky serene,The radiant paths and flowers,And here the sea, the mountain there, expand.What thoughts divinely sweet,What hopes, O Sylvia! and what souls were ours!In what guise did we meetOur destiny and life?When I remember such aspiring flown,Fierce pain invades my soulWhich nothing can consoleAnd my misfortune I again bemoan.O Nature, void of ruth!Why not give some returnFor those fair promises? Why full of fraudThy wretched offspring spurn?Thou, ere the herbs by Winter were destroyed,Led to the grave by an unknown disease,Did'st perish, tender blossom. Thy life's flowerWas not by thee enjoyed;Nor heard, thy heart to please,The admiration of thy raven hairOr of the enamoured glances of thine eyes;Nor thy companions in the festive hourSpoke of the raptures of impassioned loveOr of its burning sighs.Ere long my hope as wellWas dead and gone. By cruel Fate's decreeWas youthfulness deniedUnto my years. Ah me!How art thou past for aye,Thou dear companion of my earlier day,My hope so much bewailed!Is this the world? Are theseThe joys, the loves, the labours and the deedsWhereof so often we together spoke?Is this the doom to which mankind proceeds?When dark reality before thee layRevealed, thou sankest, and thy dying handPointed to death, a figure of cold gloom,And to a distant tomb.The Calm After the Tempest.The storm hath passed away; the birds rejoice;I hear the feathered songsters tune their notesAs they again come forth. Behold! the skySerenely breaks through regions of the WestBeyond the mountain-ridge; the country roundEmerges from the shadows, and below,Within the vale, the river clearly shines.Each heart rejoices; everywhere the soundOf life revives and the accustomed work;The artizan to see the liquid sky,With tools in hand and singing as he comes,Before the door of his abode appears;The maiden with her pitcher issues forthTo seize the waters of the recent rain,And he who traffics in the flowers and herbsOf Mother Earth, his daily cry renewsIn roads and lanes as he again proceeds.See how the Sun returns! See how he smilesUpon the hills and houses! Busy handsAre opening windows and withdrawing screensFrom balconies and ample terraces;And from the street where lively traffic runsThe tinkling bells in silver distance sound;The wheels revolve as now the travellerHis lengthy journey on the road resumes.Each heart rejoices. When is life so sweet,So welcome, as it now appears to all?When with like joy doth man to studies bend,To work return, or to new actions rise?When doth he less remember all his ills?Ah, truly, Pleasure is the child of Woe;Joy, idle Joy, the fruit of recent FearWhich roused with terror of immediate deathThe heart of him who most abhorred this life;And thus the nations in a torment long,Cold, silent, withered with expectant fear,Shuddered and trembled, seeing from Heaven's gateThe angry Powers in serried order march,The clouds, the winds, the shafts of living fire,To our annihilation and despair.Oh bounteous Nature! these thy present are,These are the joys on mortals thou doth shower;To escape from pain is happiness on earth.Sorrows thou pourest with abundant hand;Pain rises freely from a fertile seed;The little pleasure that from endless woeAs by a miracle receives its birth,Is held a mighty gain. Our human raceDear to the eternal Rulers of the sky!Ah! blest enough and fortunate indeedArt thou if pain brief respite gives to theeTo breathe and live; favoured beyond compareArt thou if cured of every grief by Death.The Villagers' Saturday Night.From copse and glade the maiden takes her wayWhen in the west the setting sun reposes;She gathered flowers; her slender fingers bearA fragrant wealth of violets and roses,And with their beauty she will deck her hair,Her lovely bosom with their leaves entwine;Such is her wont on every festive day.The aged matron sits upon the stepsAnd with her neighbours turns the spinning wheel,Facing the heavens where the rays decline;And she recalls the years,The happy years when on the festive dayIt was her wont her beauty to array,And when amidst her lovers and compeersIn youth's effulgent prideHer rapid feet through mazy dance did glide.The sky already darkens, and sereneThe azure vault its loveliness reveals;From hill and tower a lengthened shadow stealsIn silvery whiteness of the crescent moon.We hear the distant bellOf festive morrow tell;To weary hearts how generous a boon!The happy children in the open spaceIn dancing numbers throngWith game and jest and song;And to his quiet home and simple fareThe labourer doth repairAnd whistles as he goes,Glad of the morrow that shall bring repose.Then, when no other light around is seen,No other sound or stir,We hear the hammer strike,The grating saw of busy carpenter;He is about and doing, so unlikeHis quiet neighbours; his nocturnal lampWith helpful light the darkened workshop fills,And he makes haste his business to completeEre break of dawn the heavenly regions greet.This of the seven is the happiest day,With hope and joyaunce gay;To-morrow grief and careThe unwelcome hours will in their progress bear;To-morrow one and allIn thought their wonted labours will recall.O merry youth! Thy time of life so gayIs like a joyous and delightful day,A day clear and sereneThat doth the approaching festival precedeOf thy fair life. Rejoice! Divine indeedIs this fair day, I ween.I'll say no more; but when it comes to thee,Thy festival, may it not evil be.Aspasia.Again at times appeareth to my thoughtThy semblance, O Aspasia! either flashingAcross my path amid the haunts of menIn other forms; or 'mid deserted fieldsWhen shines the sun or tranquil host of stars,As by the sweetest harmony awoke,Arising in my soul which seems once moreTo yield unto that vision all superb,How much adored, O Heaven! of yore how fullyThe joyaunce and the halo of my life!I never meet the perfume of the gardensOr of the flowers that cities may display,Without beholding thee as thou appearedstUpon that day when in thy splendid roomsWhich gave the perfume of the sweetest flowersOf recent Spring, arrayed in robes that boreThe violet's hue, first thine angelic formDid meet my gaze as thou, reclining, layestOn strange, white furs, and deep, voluptuous charmSeemed to be thine, whilst thou, a skilled enchantressOf loving hearts, upon the rosy lipsOf thy fair children many a fervent kissImprintedst, bending down to them thy neckOf snowy beauty, and with lovely handTheir guileless forms, unconscious of thy wile,Clasping unto thy bosom, so desired,Though hidden. To the vision of my soulAnother sky and more entrancing worldAnd radiance as from Heaven were revealed.Thus in my heart, though not unarmed, thy powerinfixed the arrow which I wounded boreUntil that day when the revolving earthA second time her yearly course fulfilled.A ray divine unto my thought appeared,Lady, thy beauty. Similar effectsBeauty and music's harmony produce,Revealing both the mysteries sublimeOf unknown Eden. Thence the loving soul,Though injured in his love, adores the birthOf his fond mind, the amorous ideaThat doth include Olympus in its range,And seems in face, in manner and in speechLike unto her whom the enchanted loverFancies alone to cherish and admire.Not her, but that sweet image, he doth claspEven in the raptures of a fond embrace.At last his error and the objects changedPerceiving, wrath invades him, and he oftWrongly accuses her he thought he loved.The mind of woman to that lofty heightRarely ascends, and what her charms inspireShe little thinks and seldom understands.So frail a mind can harbour no such thought.In vain doth man, deluded by the lightOf those enthralling eyes, indulge in hope;In vain he asks for deep and hidden thoughts,Transcending mortal ken, of her to whomHath Nature's law a lesser rank assigned,For as her form less strength than man's received,So too her mind less energy and depth.Nor thou as yet what inspirations vastWithin my thought thy loveliness aroused,Aspasia, could'st conceive. Thou little knowestWhat love unmeasured and what woes intense,What frenzy wild and feelings without name,Thou didst within me move, nor shall the timeAppear when thou canst know it. EquallyThe skilled performer ignorant remainsOf what with hand or voice he doth arouseWithin his hearers. That Aspasia nowIs dead, whom I so worshipped. She lies lowFor evermore, once idol of my life;Unless at times, a cherished shade, she rises,Ere long to vanish. Thou art still alive,Not merely lovely, but of such perfectionThat, as I think, thou dost eclipse the rest.But now the ardour, born of thee, is spent;Because I loved not thee, but that fair goddessWho had her dwelling in me, now her grave.Her long I worshipped, and so was I pleasedBy her celestial loveliness, that I,Even from the first full conscious and awareOf what thou art, so wily and so false,Beholding in thine eyes the light of hers,Fondly pursued thee while she lived in me;Not dazzled or deluded, but inducedBy the enjoyment of that sweet resemblance,A long and bitter slavery to bear.Now boast, for well thou may'st. Say that aloneOf all thy sex art thou to whom I bentMy haughty head, to whom I gladly gaveMy heart in homage. Say that thou wert first(And last, I truly hope), to see mine eyes'Imploring gaze, and me before thee standTimid and fearful (as I write, I burnWith wrath and shame); me of myself deprived,Each look of thine, each gesture and each wordObserving meekly; at thy haughty freaksPale and subdued; then radiant with delightAt any sign of favour, changing hueAt every glance of thine. The charm is gone;And with it shattered, falls the heavy yoke,Whence I rejoice. Though weariness be with me,Yet after such delirium and long thraldomGladly my freedorh I again embraceAnd my unshackled mind. For if a lifeVoid of affections and of errors sweet,Be like a starless night in winter's depth,Revenge sufficient and sufficient balmIt is to me that here upon the grassLeisurely lying and unmoved, I gazeOn sky, earth, ocean, and serenely smile.On the Portrait of a Beautiful WomanEngraven on Her Tomb.Such was on earth thy form,But the unpitying stormOf Death resolved thy beauty into dust.Dumb witness of the flight of ages here,This image of thy perished lovelinessStands all unmoved, as though it held in trustThe guardianship of memory and pain,Above the ashes that alone remainOf those sweet charms that did thy being bless.That tender gaze, thrilling as though with fearThe eyes it pierced, as now it seems to do;Those lips, abundant with the wealth of pleasure;That neck, encircled by desire's fond arms;That hand, Love's richest treasure,Which when it clasped, responsive pressure knew;And that fair bosom whose celestial charmsGave those who saw a wan and pallid hueFrom the excess of their adoring passion:Once were as lovely as these sculptures fashion;But all that now is left on earth of theeIs dust and ashes which we may not see;Thy monument to ages that ensueConceals the mournful vision from our view.Thus Fate doth touch and crumble into dustWhatever must unto our minds appearImage of Heaven most precious and most dear.Oh mystery eternal of the world!Now fount and treasure of stupendous thought,Beauty appears in majesty sublime,Even as a Queen in regal robes empearled,And seems on earth a heavenly splendour broughtFrom fairer realms beyond the bounds of time;She seems to give us hopeOf fates that can with mortal sorrow cope,Of happier homes and planets more divineWhere golden splendours shine;But on the morrow, feeble though the blowWhich struck her so that she declines and dies,Dreadful to see and abject in our eyesBecomes that peerless beauty which beforeSeemed like the Seraphs who in Heaven adoreThe radiant throne of the celestial Sire;And all the wondrous dreams she did inspireTheir colours lose and waneAnd in our yielding souls no longer reign.Strange, infinite desiresAnd visionary firesDoth wondrous music in our fancy wake,And we then take through a delightful seaA wondrous voyage farLike some undaunted sailor of the deep;But if a discord crushOur spirit's rapturous rush,The spell is broken and our souls are freeA lonely vigil unrelieved to keep:So slight a break that solemn bliss can mar.O Nature, say, if thou art wholly vile,If dust and ashes symbolise thy being,How canst thou be so lofty and far-seeing?And if thou art so fairThat sacred dreams thy children can beguileWith art and wisdom, their appointed share,Why by a cause so slightAre all thy fond aspirings put to flight?